


From Ten

by Sarah_Ellie



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Character Development, Complete, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Skyall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Ellie/pseuds/Sarah_Ellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working at MI6 comes with a high mortality rate. Q struggles with the blood on his hands, and Bond is there to help keep the anxieties at bay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Chibura for looking over this fic!

“Try counting slowly from ten down to one, when it feels as if something has become too much.” The psychologist offered from over his clipboard. “Many find that taking a few seconds to breathe and process information is helpful for their anxieties.” 

_Except that in my line of work every second counts._ Q thought bitterly to himself. To the psychologist, he gave a small smile and nodded. “That sounds helpful.”

“Good.” The psychologist said. He was mostly bald, with a few patches of hair on the sides of his head that Q thought looked absurd. “Well, that just about wraps up our hour. If you feel that you would like to schedule something further, you know where to reach me.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” Q said stiffly. He rose from the straight-backed chair and followed the line of fluorescent lighting in the ceiling out of the frosted glass door and into the main reception area of MI6. The room filled with people typing at computers and walking between desks with stacks of files gave Q pause for a moment before he ducked through a quiet hallway and descended to Q Branch. 

\---

_Ten._

 

“Follow the tunnel until it crosses with the main passage about ten feet ahead.” Q said into his comm. “You’re going to want to take the right wing. CCTV footage shows the passage is empty, but tread carefully all the same, 003.” 

A woman standing next to Q, Riya, was typing frantically as he watched the behemoth screen over his head. On one half of the screen was an overlarge map of Beirut’s underground sewage system. The other half of the screen was split horizontally to show two views of the sewer through the cctv footage. As the agent came into view, Riya moved between camera views, quickly panning down the length of the hallway. 

“I’m in the right wing.” Agent 003 reported. Q could hear the sodden echoes of his footsteps as he made his way through the sewer. 

“Keep going.” Q said. “There will be a door on your right in fifty feet. Once you step through the door, we’ll lose visual contact, but we’ll remain on the line.” 

“Where does the door lead?” The agent asked. Q snapped his fingers and gestured for Calvin, another Q Branch technician, to begin a search for the address.

“It’s a bank.” Calvin said. 

“I can’t hack their system.” Riya said from next to Q. She had crossed from concerned into the realm of panicked, and her fingers were stumbling over the keys. Gently, Q moved Riya aside and took over her station for her. He gestured to the computer that he had abandoned and scribbled a few words on a notepad that sat in between their stations. 

STREET VIEW.

Riya nodded and set to work. 

“Okay, 003, you’ll be going through a basement passage to a savings bank.” Q said as he began to delete lines of Riya’s code and input his own. “In a few moments, we’ll be able to establish a visual in the main lobby.”

“Sir, the target has not left the building.” Nathan reported from his desk. He had a communications device in his own ear, connected to a MI6 agent. “Agent Kingsley has a full visual of the street.”

“Are we certain?” Q asked, putting his com on mute. “We can’t afford to fuck this bit up.” 

“There hasn’t been a handoff of the codes.” Amy said from her computer terminal. “Agent Laurel is two blocks away from Beirut Savings Bank with the secondary target in sight.” 

“Thank you.” Q said. He input a few final lines of code and the screen was filled with an internal view of the bank. “Riya, start facial recognition scans.” He un-muted his com and switched places with Riya once again, seamlessly picking up where her coding left off. 

“003, we’re looking for the target. He has not left your current location.” 

“Could you find him a bit more quickly?” 003’s strained voice replied. Q recognized pain in the agent’s tone.

“We’re working as fast as we can, 003. Are you injured?” Q asked. 

“I may have taken a shot or two.” The agent replied. Q could hear the heaviness of his voice as he ran up a flight of stairs. Q kept an eye on the map above him.

“Take the left hallway, it will lead past the main vault and into the lobby.” Q said. “I’m going to have a medical team prepped and sent with the extraction team. Can you provide me with a condition rating?” 

“Uh… about a seven, I suppose.” 003 replied. Q’s stomach dropped. The rating system only went to ten; one was ‘a few scrapes and bruises’ and nine was ‘severely injured.’ Anything above a six required immediate medical attention. 

“Do you need backup?” Q asked. 

“I can do the bloody job, Q. Just tell me where he is.” 003 snapped. 

“He’s not in the lobby.” Riya reported. 

A moment later, Q heard the crack of a gunshot over his com. On a screen off to the side of the room, smaller but still large enough to see from his table, a list of vitals began to flatline.

“003, report.” Q said frantically, attempting to pull up landline phone records as the individuals in the bank lobby began to scatter to the ground. An emergency call went in from a back office of the bank, and a woman was screaming that someone with a gun was dead on the floor. 

“003! Fuck!” Q slammed his fist down on the table and looked around. His staff wore looks of shock. 

In the corner, Q noticed James Bond leaning against the wall, watching the chaos with a tight expression on his face. When he caught Q’s eye, he gave a grim nod and left. 

“Sir? Agent Kingsley is following the target.” Nathan said, his voice shaking. 

“Have Agent Laurel remove the secondary target.” Q said grimly. “It looks like we’re going to have to go with plan B.”

He ran his long fingers through his dark hair and took a deep breath. 

“Riya, get M on the line. We’re going to have to do some damage control.” 

\---

_Nine._

 

There were tea stains on the cuffs of his shirt. His mug had been upset a few minutes before, but Q made no move to lift his arms from the sodden desktop. The tea had gone cold an hour ago, and not a single sip had been taken from the mug. A puddle of tea spread across the floor. In a distant part of his brain, Q was aware that there were documents that had probably been ruined, but he did not find it in himself to care. 

The door to his office was shut and except for a small desk lamp, his lights were off. The technicians knew better than to approach him, and it seemed that they had warned the research and development teams not to bother him either. 

_I can do the bloody job, Q._ 003’s voice rang in his ear. 

_I can do the bloody job._

Finally, Q lifted his arms from the desk and sopped up the mess with a wad of tissues. He could smell bergamot as he dabbed at his papers. In the end, nothing had taken on extensive damage. Even the photograph on his desk had been unharmed. If nothing else, the papers looked antiquated but not ruined. The tile floor cleaned up easily enough as well. 

It was just past midnight, which meant that the drivers for the MI6 car bank would have gone home hours before and the tube would be running on a stuttered schedule. Q sighed and gathered his bag and green jacket from a small closet in the corner of his office. He was facing a long walk home in the rain, unless he managed to come across a cab on the way home. 

As his footsteps echoed off of the flooring, a melody of gunshots reverberated through Q’s head. It played over and over as he stepped out of Headquarters and into the rain. Drops of water obscured his glasses, and Q ducked his head to the chill of the wind. 

_I can do the bloody job, Q._ 003 assured Q as he crossed the street. 

The gunshot sounded through his head once again as Q’s feet hit the curb. 

\---

_Eight._

 

There was a double-oh agent sitting in a chair in the lobby of Q’s apartment building. James Bond sat with a small book in his lap and an expression of calm on his face. He looked settled and relaxed. He had been there for a long time. 

Q paused to slide his key into his mailbox and take out the stack of advertisements that were nestled inside. The sound of metal slotting against metal drew Bond’s attention, and he glanced over. 

“I didn’t expect you to be quite so preoccupied at the office.” Bond said, his tone even. 

“Funny, I didn’t expect you to show up on my doorstep.” Q replied. He was very tired, and the rubbing of his wet cuffs against his jacket was irritating the skin on his arms. “Is there an emergency that I’m unaware of? An issue with your tech?”

“No.” Bond said. He stood and tucked the book into the inner pocket of his jacket. 

“Then what are you doing here?” Q asked, flummoxed. He glanced around the lobby, which was admittedly plain despite the occasional efforts of the landlord to spruce the place up with cheap paint and tacky artwork. The openness of the space was setting Q’s anxiety on edge. Bond was a perfect target where he was standing in the center of the room, and double-ohs were becoming an endangered species. 

“Well, the initial plan was to drag you out for a drink.” Bond said. “But then you never came home, so I was waiting until one before putting out an alert for you.” 

“You’ve never heard of a telephone?” Q asked. He took a few steps away from Bond and towards the elevator, and paused to see if Bond would join him. He did. 

“Telephones can be tapped. Particularly mobiles.” Bond said, watching as Q pressed the button to summon the lift. The doors opened immediately, revealing the garishly bright elevator car that would take them to the seventh floor. 

“So you waited on my doorstep.” Q said. He didn’t have the energy for Bond’s antics. He wanted to go to bed. He wanted to lay in the darkness, and listen to the cacophony of gunshots that wouldn’t stop ringing through his head over and over and over again. 

_I can do the bloody job, Q._

“I waited in the lobby of the building where upper-level MI6 staff are housed until after their six-month employee status and secondary security confirmations are cleared.” Bond corrected. 

“Same difference.” Q murmured. His heart leapt at the feeling of levitation as the elevator began to rise. It was always his least favorite part; the knowledge that he was being shot into the air in complete defiance of gravity. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall of the elevator, counting the telltale _dings_ that sounded as they climbed further up the building. 

By the third floor, each _ding_ cracked like a gunshot. 

“All right, Q?” Bond asked quietly as they rose slowly. “You’re looking a bit off-color.” 

“I’m fine, 007.” Q replied shakily. The elevator slowed, and the doors opened. He stepped into the hallway gratefully and led the way to his door. Instead of a key, he placed his ring finger against a pressure pad that was affixed to the wall where a doorbell would usually have been. The pad slid open, and revealed a keypad with black matte-colored numbers and symbols. Q typed in an eight-digit code and pressed ENTER. A green light lit on the keypad and his door opened. 

“I don’t suppose you’d like a cup of tea?” Q asked as he walked through his entryway. He hung his coat and bag by the door and wandered into the kitchen. A silver kettle that he had filled that morning sat on the stove. Q flicked the burner on without waiting for a reply from Bond. 

“Not really my drink, but thank you.” Bond said politely. He stood stoically against one wall of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. “What happened to your sleeves?” 

“Had a bit of a spill earlier.” Q replied distractedly. He tried to undo the buttons on his shirt, but his fingers were numb and shaking. “Nothing dire, I assure you.” 

“Good, I was worried there was some rancid chemical being produced in Q Branch that I needed to watch out for.” Bond said. He stepped forward, his face tight with determination, and made quick work of Q’s buttons. As Bond tugged each fastening through its hole down the line of his chest, Q held his breath. At the last button, Bond’s fingers brushed against his abdomen, and Q nearly leapt out of his skin. Bond glanced at him with concern, and Q took a step away from him and busied himself with rooting through his cabinets. 

“Sorry.” Bond murmured. 

“No worries.” Q said from inside the cabinet. He tried to ignore the warmth pooling in his stomach. “I’m a bit touchy, is all.” 

He selected a tea bag that promised to provide sleep and calm and dropped it into one of the mugs that sat ready and waiting on his counter top. Around the outside of the mug was a picture of his half-sister and her calico cat. 

“Sure.” Bond said quietly. He tapped his fingers against his thigh. 

The water boiled and Q turned off the stove and finished making his tea. When he picked up the mug, Bond glanced at the photograph. Something in his expression changed, but Q couldn’t quite determine what the expression was. 

“Girlfriend?” Bond asked, gesturing to the mug. 

“Sister.” Q corrected. “She moved to the states last winter and she made this for my mum to placate her.”

“And you stole it?” Bond asked, his eyebrows raised. 

“No, mum died six months ago.” Q said. He set the mug down. “I took when we were clearing out the house.” 

“I’m sorry.” Bond said after a moment’s pause. 

“Don’t be.” Q shrugged. He picked up the sugar jar to put it back in the cabinet “Death happens.” 

A gunshot. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. _I can do the bloody job, Q._

“Fuck.” The jar fell to the floor and shattered. Sugar flew everywhere, sticking to Q’s wet shoes. Bond, who had been looking at Q’s mug when the jar slipped out of his hand, jumped at the sound of impact and rushed partway into the room, arm outstretched to Q, before realizing they weren’t under immediate threat. 

“We never really leave MI6, do we?” Q asked sadly, glancing between Bond and the mess on the floor. 

\---

_Seven._

 

_“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.” The doctor said to Q. They were standing in the hallway of the hospital under a flickering fluorescent light. The steady pulse of his mother’s heart monitor could be heard from outside of the room, and Q felt himself fading away with each passing moment. Except he wasn’t Q yet. He was Thomas. MI6 was still a few months off. Instead, he was a computer programmer and weekend hacker. “The pneumonia’s settled into her lungs, and her body can’t fight it because of the chemotherapy.”_

_When he returned to his mother’s hospital room, he realized that his mother looked so sick and small in the bed; so vulnerable. She didn’t say anything as he sat in the plastic chair by her bedside, but she smiled slightly when he took her hand in his. It was colder than it should be._

_“How’re you feeling, mum?” Q whispered softly, brushing his mother’s long grey hair off of her forehead as he spoke. “Amelia sends her love. She wanted to come out and visit, but her flight was grounded because of a bad storm.” Q was lying. Amelia hadn’t been able to afford to fly back to London, and Q didn’t have the money to fly her in either, not with funeral expenses looming so closely in the future. He felt as if he had let his sister down; he was supposed to be the older brother that could provide, but he couldn’t even bring Amelia home to say goodbye to their dying mother. That helplessness, however, was only a small echo of what he felt as he looked down at his mother who was fading from the world._

_Three hours later, his mother died with her hand tucked into his. She was buried the following Tuesday in a small plot surrounded by a few neighbors and old co-workers and Q, who had no words to say to anyone and could find no solace in the comfort of the strangers around him._

_A week after that, he began to orchestrate a hack into the databases of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. When the agents arrived to bring him into MI6 for questioning, they found a man passed out in his pyjamas in front of his computer screen, a bottle of Vodka standing empty on the desk next to him. Under the bottle was a list of security weaknesses in the MI6 mainframe._

_He sobered up under the watchful gaze of MI6 security, and he was questioned extensively. It became clear that he had left a trail on purpose, and he produced a hand-written list of coding that would fix the errors in their computer system._

_At first, he was contracted to temporarily patch the systems. Occasionally, when there was something that Q Branch couldn’t hack they would ring Thomas and have him sit at a single terminal in an empty room and work. When their top double-oh agent went missing in Turkey, he had been brought in to try and track him. Then, he was set to finding the data that they had lost._

_After four months of random summons from MI6 and the near-constant surveillance of his every move, he was hired as the new Q._

_He brought in a picture of his mother and put it on his new desk._

Q emptied the last of the spilled sugar into the bin and finished the remaining dregs of his tea. Bond watched him with a furrowed brow as he worked. Neither man said anything. 

\---

_Six._

 

They were drunk. Very drunk. Not the drunkest Q had been in the last year, but he was pretty damn close. He was finding that he enjoyed drinking. Drinking silenced the words of 003. It dampened the gunshots. It helped him forget how much he missed his mother, at least for a little while. As for Bond, he held his liquor so spectacularly that it was difficult for Q to tell what the agent’s inebriation level was, but mathematically he should have been wasted. 

At one point, Q realized that he was still in his tea-soaked shirt; unbuttoned and revealing his undershirt, but not removed. He stood and stumbled to his bedroom to change while Bond watched him go. He changed into a plain black v-neck that he typically saved for weekends and a pair of grey sweatpants and returned to the floor of the sitting room where Bond waited, bow tie laying open around his collar and his shoes kicked off to reveal dark argyle socks. 

Q settled next to Bond, but mis-gauged the distance and ended up with his hip pressed against the agent’s. He shifted further away, and murmured apologies that Bond only shrugged off. 

He woke up the next morning on the floor with Bond’s arm wrapped around his chest. Their bodies were slotted close together; knees fit against knees and hips against hips. 

\---

_Five._

It was against protocol for MI6 agents to attend the funerals of fallen comrades. Ceremonies and burials were reserved for family members and friends, and a private service was held in a special room in the bowels of MI6 for co-workers. It was considered a national security risk if most of England’s greatest (and most dangerous) citizens were all in a single location at the same time. 

Even so, Q crept into the back row of the burial quietly, and sat on a metal folding chair speckled with moisture from the drizzle. He wore a black suit and tie, and he watched stoically as a member of the church read from his bible while a teenager dressed in white robes held the book open for him. The cab that had dropped him off pulled away, fading into the rain. Around him, women dabbed their eyes and patted the backs of their husbands, whose heads were bowed. There weren’t very many children, except for a young girl who sat in the first row of the mourners, next to a much older woman whose grief was evident even from a distance. 

After a time, the casket was lowered, and the attendees began to take small shovelfuls of dirt and empty them onto the mahogany casket, deep in the earth. Q shuffled out of his chair and backed away into the trees, watching. 

“Afternoon, Q.” A voice said from behind him. Q turned, startled, and sighed when he saw Bond approaching. He was dressed in a suit as well, grey instead of black, and he looked grim. 

“Agents aren’t supposed to attend civilian funerals.” Q said pointedly, turning back to the service. The young girl was standing at the foot of the grave, staring into its depths as if she hoped to find resolution there. Q recognized the expression. He had been wearing it himself six months prior. 

“Neither are department heads.” Bond replied curtly. “Anyway, I’m here for you, not the service.”

“You knew I would be here?” Q asked questioningly. 

Bond gave Q an incredulous look. “My job is espionage. I’m paid to read people.” 

“Somehow that fails to be comforting.” Q replied lowly. Bond let a small smile slip and put a hand on Q’s shoulder. 

“This wasn’t your fault, you know.” He said, giving a small nod to the service. “It’s a part of the job.” 

“I know.” Q answered. 

“Maybe you do.” Bond shrugged. “But for all of the hype about one’s duty to England, MI6 tends to glaze over the reality that our jobs come with a high mortality rate. It’s easy to forget that we volunteer for this.”

“In two months, two people have died on my watch.” Q said, turning to Bond. “I can’t deny my share of the blame.”

“ That doesn’t mean that you have to shoulder all of it.” Bond said gruffly. Q recognized the edge that entered Bond’s voice any time the events of Skyfall were mentioned. 

“Then who should?” Q asked, glancing back at the funeral. The mourners were dispersing, getting into their individual cars and driving off. “Everyone has acted like its business as usual.”

“Because this _is_ business as usual, Q.” Bond said patiently. “We know what the job is, and we know the risks involved. Do you think-”

Q looked at Bond, but he couldn’t hear the words coming out of his mouth anymore. 

_I can do the bloody job, Q._

CRACK.

_I can do the bloody job._

Over and over and over and over again. 

Bond stopped speaking after a few moments, his face lined with concern as he watched Q’s skin turn pale and his hands begin to shake slightly. 

“Q?” Bond prompted, looking at the quartermaster with a searching gaze. 

“I… I’m sorry.” Q said, clenching his hands and stuffing them into his pockets. Bond gave him a curt nod, and moved his hand from Q’s shoulder to his back. Carefully, he led Q away from the burial and towards the silver car parked a few yards away. 

“Let me take you home.” Bond said. 

“Alright, then.” Q agreed. He felt as if electricity was running through his veins as he stepped carefully into the car and settled into the leather seats. 

\---

_Four._

 

The car ride was mostly quiet as Bond pulled through the sodden London streets. It was only a ten minute drive, and Q spent most of it with his head pressed against the passenger window, trying to piece together Bond’s abrupt presence in his life.

“You were in Q Branch when we lost 003.” Q said suddenly, the memory sparked unexpectedly. 

“Yes.” Bond said. He did not turn his eyes away from the street. 

“Why?” Q asked. “You weren’t being outfitted, right? And Riya was too busy to flirt with you like she usually does.”

“Riya doesn’t flirt with me.” Bond argued. 

“Sure she does. You just don’t flirt back, mysteriously enough.” Q replied. He glanced at the traffic on either side of them, wondering briefly what kinds of conversations were happening in the other cars all over London. 

“Regardless, I wasn’t there to see Riya.” Bond said. 

“Then who-“

“You. Obviously.” Bond said, glancing over. Q swallowed the lump that rose in his throat.

“Is it obvious?” He asked tentatively.

“Perhaps not.” Bond shrugged. He paused a moment before continuing. “I was advised that with the loss of M, I needed to engage socially with the world around me.” His tone was flat, and Q knew that he was quoting someone directly.

“MI6 sent you to mandatory psychotherapy as well, did they?” Q asked. 

“Indeed.” Bond said. “Bloody useless git, if you ask me.” 

“Somehow I feel as if he feels similarly about you.” Q said quietly. Bond chuckled, but didn’t reply. They fell back into silence for the rest of the drive. 

“Do you mind if I come up?” Bond asked as he pulled onto Q’s street. His fingers tapped on the steering wheel, and he did not look at Q as he selected a parking spot and began the tedious process of parallel parking in a city. 

“Please.” Q said. Anxiety curled around the center of his chest, coiled to spring and threatening to reduce him to nothingness. He realized that his efforts to hold himself together were making him fray around the edges. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be broken completely. He wanted the constant threat of being undone to be reduced to ashes at his feet. 

They stepped out of Bond’s car and into the lobby. Q paused under the bright lights and glanced at Bond, who gestured to the elevator.

“After you.” He said. 

There was no pretense when Q led Bond into his flat. He loosened his tie and hung up his suit jacket calmly, and offered Bond a drink of tea just before hinting at something stronger. Bond accepted a scotch on the rocks, and Q had a glass of water. His mouth felt like cotton.

When Q returned from the kitchen with their drinks, he set them on the coffee table and sat down next to Bond, who had ignored the sofa in lieu of the floor. He glanced over at the agent, who sat calmly and took a sip of his drink. 

“You’re sure about this?” He asked Q, voice laden with intention. 

“Of course.” Q said. It occurred to Q that he had never heard of Bond as being interested in men. Then again, he had never known the agent to have sex outside of his missions. Not since Vesper, at least. “You?”

“Would I be here otherwise?” Bond jibbed gently, and continued to sip his drink. After a moment he draped an arm over Q’s shoulder and pulled him closer. He nipped lightly at the outer shell of Q’s ear while his fingers trailed over the notch where Q’s collarbone met his shoulder. Q was surprised when Bond didn’t make any further advances and instead alternated between kissing his neck and sipping from the tumbler in his hand. 

“What precisely are we waiting for?” Q asked after a little while, when the glass was leaning more towards the empty side. 

“What’s the rush?” Bond asked, shifting a little. 

Q knew that this wasn’t Bond’s usual seduction method. He had been on the listening end to a few of Bond’s conquests over the last few weeks, and knew that the agent operated quickly and with purpose. As a result, he didn’t know what to do with the slow and sultry strokes and kisses that Bond was placing against his shoulders and neck. 

“No rush.” Q said after a pause. He didn’t want to tell Bond how desperately he wanted to be taken apart. How he wanted to be hurt, to sweat, to feel adrenaline and the ache of muscles. He needed it with a depth that he didn’t entirely understand. 

“I had you pegged as more of a romantic.” Bond mouthed into Q’s shoulder. 

“Sometimes.” Q said quietly. He placed his hand on Bond’s inner thigh and slowly traced his fingers upwards. 

“Sometimes.” Bond repeated and then pulled away. “But not right now.”

_I can do the bloody job, Q._

“No, not right now.” Q gasped. 

\---

_Three._

 

The weight of Bond’s hand pressed Q against the mattress. He could feel the fingers digging into his back, and the heat of Bond’s legs straddling his calves. Q was on his knees somewhat, but his legs were slightly splayed to give Bond’s other hand access to him. 

He groaned when one of Bond’s fingers swiped over his entrance, and he grit his teeth when Bond stopped moving his hand and pressed there, just at the pucker. The digit swirled over Q in a tight circle, slick with lubricant, as Q tried to press himself down onto Bond’s hand. 

“Easy.” Bond said. His voice was low and gravelly. 

“Please, Bond.” Q whispered, his lips scraping against the sheets. The finger slowly slid forward and pressed just behind his balls. 

“Call me James.” Bond said, sliding his fingers back again. The gesture elicited a quiet keen from Q, who was using every fiber of his self control not to rut his hips down against the mattress. Sensing his desperation, Bond pressed against Q’s entrance until his finger was buried up to the first knuckle inside of him. 

“Fuck.” Q groaned. His hand reached down for his cock, which he stroked slowly. Bond didn’t move until he thought that Q had adjusted to him, and then he pressed further inwards. He relished in Q’s gasping breaths, one hand stroking against Q’s hip as he pressed a second slicked finger against Q’s entrance. 

Bond was a torturous mix of gentle and rough as he opened Q. His fingers worked slowly and thoroughly, but he would occasionally scissor his fingers very nearly too far, or he would press inwards with slightly more pressure than Q was used to taking. Each time, Q groaned with pleasure and clenched his fingers into the sheets while his other hand remained on his cock. 

“Ready?” Bond asked. He removed his fingers and began slicking his cock with lubricant that Q had produced from his bathroom earlier.

“Yes.” Q breathed, removing his hand from his cock s that he could ground himself on the mattress. 

He felt Bond’s tip against him, sliding purposefully from the base of his spine to just behind his balls and then back to Q’s entrance. Q drew a sharp intake of breath as Bond pressed himself inwards, slowly inching his way inside of Q. 

After a moment of adjustment, Q began to rock his hips backwards, riding Bond as the agent gripped his hips and let out a soft groan. Quickly, Bond began to thrust steadily inside of Q. He left one hand on Q’s hip and reached the other to fist at Q’s cock. 

“Harder.” Q groaned, and spread his legs wider while pressing his abdomen closer to the mattress. The small change in position helped Bond to hit his prostate, which elicited a new range of sounds from Q as he thrust in earnest. 

They moved together in their established rhythm for some time, until Q gasped and warned Bond that he was incredibly close or orgasm. With a smooth movement, Bond brought his fingers up Q’s shaft to the slit and down again, timing the movement of his hand with his thrusts. 

Q came with a groan that he muffled with the sheets. He felt Bond begin to slow inside of him, and he rocked himself back again, burying Bond inside of him again. 

“Fuck, Q.” Bond moaned softly. “I’m close.” 

“Good.” Q replied with a small smile. He rocked back again, and Bond’s hands flew from his legs to his hips to his back, where his fingers dug into Bond’s shoulder as he rode out his own orgasm. 

Bond pulled out, and Q rolled onto the other side of the bed, pulling Bond with him. They laid still for a moment, each trying to catch his breath. 

The gunshots stayed at bay for a bit longer. 

\---

_Two._

 

“We need you to prepare Bond for an assignment in Colombia.” Tanner said, passing the folder across Q’s desk. 

Q accepted the folder and watched Tanner leave his office. He kept a mask of calm covering his growing panic until his door was closed again, at which point his breath began to rush in ragged gasps and dark circles appeared before his eyes. 

He wasn’t ready for another loss. 

\---

_One._

 

“You’re giving me a gun, a radio, a tracker, and a GPS.” Bond said dubiously as he looked into the metal case that Q handed him. “This seems a bit excessive for a routine extraction.”

“None of this equipment is extravagant in the least, Bond.” Q said, pulling a sheaf of travel papers and Bond’s passport from his pocket. It felt strange, using Bond’s surname. He was James when they were alone together, away from MI6, and that had quickly become the more natural name to use. 

“Perhaps not.” Bond said, pursing his lips. “This increases the chances that I’ll bring some of the equipment back, at least.” 

“It’ll be like Christmas.” Q said drily. He handed over the documents and tried to avoid Bond’s heavy gaze. 

“I will be coming back, you know.” Bond said pointedly. Q glanced up at him. 

“You can’t promise that.” He whispered. 

“Maybe not.” Bond agreed. “But I promise to do my level best.”

“As will I.” Q said, tapping his ear. 

Bond stood and walked around Q’s desk. He pulled him up off of his chair and held him close. 

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else to bring me back in one piece.” Bond whispered into Q’s ear. “But what happens in the field isn’t in your control.”

“Some-“Q began. 

Bond cut Q off. 

“I want you to trust me to come back alive.” Bond said. “Trust me to be careful enough and good enough to come back to you.” 

“Okay.” Q said, subdued. 

“Thank you.” Bond smiled. He leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on Q’s lips before he left, pausing only to glance back at Q for a moment before disappearing. 

It was a torturous three days. Q fought tooth and nail against his personal melody of 003’s words and the gunshot that ended his life. He tried to concentrate on Bond’s mission, watching the tracker he had given Bond every spare moment that he had. 

He was relieved when Bond had completed his assignment, and Q prepared his homeward travels quickly. 

When Bond returned to London, he stopped at Q’s flat first. Q was sitting at the kitchen table, tea in one hand and a book in the other. A tablet lay abandoned to the side of the table, with the successful landing status of Bond’s return fight still blinking on the screen. 

Bond wrapped Q in his arms the second that Q answered the door. 

“We’re okay.” Bond said gently. 

Q agreed wholeheartedly, his mind devoid of last words and nightmarish echoes for a little while longer.


End file.
